


A Cat In Gloves Catches No Fish

by Mymorningteacup



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Catlock, John Watson - Freeform, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock is a cat
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:01:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27970454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mymorningteacup/pseuds/Mymorningteacup
Summary: Life is never a dull moment since returning home from the war. At least John never thought he would be renting a flat with a fish and chips obsessed cat-like detective from a demented landlady who is constantly high.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 5
Kudos: 39





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this on a whim that slowly progressed into something I thought I would never write. Still working on quirks here and there but who knows it may turn out into an interesting story.

He had interviewed over a hundred people for the extra room, but none of them suited him. Either they were radicals who opposed him, into strange fantasies he had no desire to be apart of, or detested his personality altogether when he confronted them with their life story. The last thing he wanted to was to rely on his brother to help him with the rent just to live in a decent area of London. Even with the discounted price the land lady had quoted him.

The evening had set and he found himself lost in thought as he reclined in his armchair. A random cup of steaming tea had mysteriously made home beside him on the table along with a note. Most likely the land lady's doings. She was always wondering about. Turning up at inconvenient times here and there.

" I tried to get your attention but you didn't hear me. There is a gentleman coming to see the flat. 6pm."

He sighed heavily and looked at his watch. Quarter till six already. Another fifteen minutes before his guest arrived and possibly turn right around and leave. Either way he had determined this would be the last one.

Sherlock sauntered over to the window and peered down to the street below. Watching people from above he could tell anyone their own darkest secrets. Politician having an affair, an accountant laundering money, a nurse that has been falsifying documents. He had seen them walk the street before. None of them new to him. The usual crowd. Dull. Lifeless. Predictable.

Except one who stood out among the rest.

He watched a stout sandy blonde man, no more than mid thirties, limp across the road with a cane by his side. He noticed how the man briefly looked at his phone before he put it back in his pocket along with several papers; then proceeded to knock on the door of 221B. It was his guest. One that had piqued his interest.

John knocked generously on the black lacquered door of 221B. Coming home from the war and discharged to civilian life had left him estranged from family and in need of a place to live. The advertisement he had seen days before felt like a golden opportunity for the weary solider that had fallen straight into his lap.

In need of flat mate. Expenses split. Same gender or opposite. Must have stable income and have flexible living arrangements. Address is 221B Baker St.

A telephone number was listed to inquire, he had called, and set a time with an elderly woman. Not that it mattered to him though he would've preferred someone closer to his age, but maybe he needed a change. Something quiet and mundane, like the elderly woman. And who knows maybe she needed a friend too.

The door opened and a woman clad in a deep purple dress with long sleeves, brown hair greying along the edges of her ears, presented herself.

"You must be John. Come in, come in," she smiled and ushered him through the door. "And you are the solider fellow correct? Sorry my mind sometimes slips around and I've had all sorts come to see about the room. "

His cane clicked as he followed her inside.

"Ah, yes. Recently got back. You must be Mrs. Hudson. And thank you for letting come and see about it."

"Quite alright. Its all the way upstairs I hope that won't be a problem. It's the last room I have. The poor man he's been needing a flat mate for quite a while now and…" dropping down her voice low that even John strained to hear her when she added "too prideful to ask his brother for help if you want my opinion."

"Oh. It's not a flat share with you?" John asked confused.

"Me? Heaven's no I just own the property. The flat share is for Sherlock. He's just up on the next floor."

Well this was certainly news to him. He hadn't expected there to be another besides the elderly woman. Then again maybe it would be better off to have male company instead of her. He wouldn't want to have people talking and giving them the wrong impression or either frightening her half to death if he brought home a lady friend. John cautiously climbed the stairs with effort and came to the landing of the next floor. The door was already open to display a large sitting room with boxes and furniture scattered around in no particular order and with no soul in sight. Hesitantly, he went through the threshold to announce his presence.

"Hello?" he asked into the void, knocking lightly on the door.

A baritone voice answered from down the hallway to his left behind closed doors.

"Take a seat and I shall be out momentarily. Dr. Watson, I presume?"

"Uh, yes," Startled by how the man knew he was a doctor. He had never mentioned it to Mrs. Hudson on the phone prior. "You must be Sherlock." He made his way into the sitting room and took a seat in red armchair that looked like it had seen better days.

"Yes," John heard the door open and footsteps come down the hall, but instead of coming to the sitting room the man entered the kitchen that was behind him. "I trust you had no trouble finding the place. Would you like some tea? I see you'd had a grueling day, job hunting has left you exhausted."

John's jaw slacked opened a bit. How in the devil did he know he had been job hunting?

"Uh, no. No. Not hard to find at all. Tea would be lovely. Nice area, this flat. Must be expensive though?"

"I cut a deal with Mrs. Hudson. She owes me a favor." John heard a kettle click on and the clattering of China being set up as the man stirred around the kitchen. "Couple of years ago her husband was being sentenced in Florida for getting into some trouble. I helped out."

"You helped her husband from being executed?" John said incredulously.

"Oh no. I ensured it. Do you take cream or sugar?"

"Ensured it? Ensured it?!" John's thoughts were sending warning bells to him. He hoped to God he didn't enter the flat of some raving psychopath.

"Cream, no sugar." He tried to keep his voice steady despite his nervousness.

"Very well. How long have you been back from the war? I would say no more than a couple of months, is that correct?" Kettle had just boiled now. Tea was being poured and prepped. In a few moments he would meet this mind reading magician. Or maybe he was a serial killer? John shook the thoughts away with effort.

"Three months. Been trying to find a suitable place to live. Balancing a budget on a army pension is a nightmare."

"Rightly so. You must forgive me I haven't had the chance to tidy up a bit and sort things out. Just moved in myself a few weeks back but I have been engrossed in work. I'm sure with both our incomes we can live quite simply. What say you?"

"Sounds nice."

"Splendid. The violin doesn't bother you any? I play when I'm thinking. Often times I get so caught up I may not talk for days on in and you must not think me sulky or depressive. Just let me alone and I'll soon be right. Flat mates should know the worst of each other, don't you think?"

"Suppose. I personally have no aversion to the violin. I won't lie there are days where I can be lazy myself, but don't we all."

"Of course. Though…there is one more thing." John could hear him setting a tray and footsteps coming closer. Finally, John would come face to face with the man he had been speaking to.

Sherlock set the tray on the end table next to John, handing him his tea, and collecting a cup and saucer for himself and settling in the chair across from him. The emotions he saw fleet across his guest's face was that of shock, surprise and even fascination. No doubt it was because of his features that defined his very being. His mop of black glossy curly hair was home to two black triangular ears much like that of a cat. His pale skin made his unnerving icy blue eyes stand out. The pupil also cat like with their oval definition. The hands that embraced his cup and saucer were gracefully long, musician's hands, the nails a distinct opaque color and thicker than any humans. Normally longer, sharper, he had trimmed his down to the edges of his fingers. Easier to play the violin with no claws in the way. And lastly, curled over the edge of his seat, a thick rope of a tail, its tip flicking side to side. The black fur of the tail was more slim at the beginning and filling out more till it ended in a plume.

Needless to say John was at a total loss of words for a split moment. He hadn't suspected that the man he had been freely speaking to was a minority of the general population that he had rarely seen in London.

"Please don't tell me you are a mass murdering maniac. I haven't even drank my tea yet though now I'm wondering about it since you ensured Mrs. Hudson's husband's death." John confessed in a hurry and without a second thought. Once the words were out he felt as though he had put his foot in his mouth by most likely offending the residing occupant.

Sherlock's ears were stock forward, attentive and his eyes narrowed. Then he let go of a laugh, letting his sharp canines freely show.

"I must say that is a first! Quick in thought and in honesty. Not concerned or repulsed that you may be sharing a flat with a Felisian, but that I may have poisoned your tea because I ensured a death sentence. Interesting I must say."

John let out a nervous laugh and let a eye wonder down to the drink at hand.

"Good man let me put your mind at rest. I'm a consulting detective. You have nothing to worry about."

"Ah! Right! Of course. Then that must've been how you knew about me. You must've looked my name up."

A sly smile graced Sherlock's lips as he took a sip of tea.

"Not at all."

"Then how did you know I was a doctor home from the war?"

Sherlock set down his cup and saucer on the side table and conjoined his fingers in an elegant manner in front of him.

"Please by all means drink your tea. It shall be lengthy. All I did was observe. When I saw you walking down the street towards the flat I noticed you were tanned, though nothing above the wrist. You've been abroad. Your hair cut suggests military. You have steady hands, you are acclimatized to violence, even now when you thought your very life was in danger over a cup of tea. The smell of antiseptic when you entered the room gives away that you have been to a clinic or hospital recently. Not for your own medical purposes even though your limp is psychosomatic. Please fire your therapist. Therefore you've been job hunting. Not going successful by the way. I saw your application paper that you stuck into your coat pocket when you reached the door. Perhaps the place you where just at wasn't keen on a doctor with a cane. You would go to your brother for help, but you don't approve of his drinking. Your phone in your pocket is expensive yet you are looking for a flat share. You wouldn't waste money on that. So must be borrowed. The scratches on the outlet suggests a drinking problem. Never see a sober man with them, never see a drunks without them."

John's cup only managed to get halfway to his mouth before he let the speech over power him with astonishment. Sherlock had turned away from him now, not even waiting for John's reaction since he had stripped him raw, but it was all the truth. The other candidates couldn't handle his blunt to the point reasoning. They had all either left in a huff, cursing his name to whatever God above, some to fits of tears. It was only a matter of time before he started and…

"That….was amazing." John breathed out.

One of Sherlock's ears flicked back to John and his eyes narrowed back at him again. Surely he hadn't heard him right.

"You think so?" Sherlock asked treading on uncharted waters.

"Yes, extraordinary. Quite extraordinary."

Sherlock's ears relaxed, no longer in their attentive state.

"That's not what people normally say."

Curiosity got the better of John as he asked what they normally said in which Sherlock only replied "Piss off." John couldn't help but smile and drink his tea, watching as the other smiled in return. All the ice that was between them was broken. John had met Felisian's before but never did interact with any of them. And now it seemed he was getting his full dose.

"Yoo hoo," Called Mrs. Hudson from the doorway. "How's everything getting on?"

"Marvelous Mrs. Hudson. Just telling Dr. Watson about my work."

"Oh yes. Dreadful business... What is it you do again dear?"

John gave a confused looked towards the elderly woman and then back to Sherlock. The angular ears had flattened to the sides and his stare was cold and hard.

"You'll have to forgive Mrs. Hudson sometimes she indulges at times in taking a higher dosage of her "evening herbal soothers" and it interferes with her dementia as she often forgets that I am. A. Consulting. Detective!" He said the last part through gritted teeth. Hoping his words would penetrate her brain.

Mrs. Hudson's face lit up in recognition and her mouth formed an 'o'.

"That's right! Like Magnum P.I.!," she chuckled to herself and looked over at John. "Are you going to be Jonathon Quail Higgins?"

John set his cup down in his saucer with a hard clink. In all the scenarios he could've come back home to it had to be this one. He admitted he thought his life was going to be slow and mundane once out of the army. A quiet little flat, boring job, and do...what exactly? Take up fishing? Stamp collecting? The mere thought made him want keel over. He would die of boredom. Now here he was a crippled doctor taking a flat with a oversized cat detective and a demented landlady who was high. He had always thought about writing. And even his therapist had told him to get a hobby. Write about everything that happened to him. It would help she said. What better way than this?

He looked towards his new companion in sudden revere.

"This is going to be absolutely mental."

"But think of all the fun we are going to have my dear Watson." A devilish grin glimmered with Sherlock's icy eyes. "Besides you can't go now. You've made such a good first impression."

With that John knew the detective was right.

"Oh fuck me."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock invites John out on a case, but of course things don't go as planned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dear readers. Sorry its taken me a while to update this. In all honesty I had only one chapter created up in my head and didn't really think this would go anywhere. But I had some bits and pieces of future chapters scribbled down and decided to continue it. Though now I'm trying to map out the story to see where it does go. Because I'm not sure if I want this to have a more whimsical feel to it. Or perhaps a more darker mood. Or both. Either way I have ideas popping up in my head and they are sounding very interesting. 
> 
> Sincerely, Your Dearly Demented Author

It did not take long for John to realize that his new flatmate was territorial. He had been there no less than a week when he observed strange behavior coming from the Felisian. It had to be the unconscious instinct of Sherlock's kind that wanted to prove that it was more dominating than their human counter part. He assumed it had to do with the fact they were both male and Sherlock simply wanted to be alpha in the sense.

The grey sitting chair was _His_ , one side of the kitchen table was _His_ , depending on the time of day either side of the desk could be _His._ The sofa could be compromised at times but not between the hours of noon and three in the afternoon. Apparently the sun hit it just right for a perfect afternoon catnap. Any doorway, furniture, or item of interest to Sherlock was laid claim when he rubbed it with the side of his head, stroke of his hand or brush of his tail. If John accidentally made the mistake of touching the wrong thing he was earned a scowl and the process had to start all over again. He felt like he was stepping on invisible toes when he didn’t know there was any there. It was constantly an awkward dance as he tried to stay on his side and the detective on his. Though luckily John had been spared his feline scenting treatments.

Their daily routine thus far had been the same. They woke, they dressed, breakfasted, and if the Felisian had a client come to the door he would ask John if they could have the sitting room to themselves, leaving John to either scurry upstairs to his own room or take a walk. But he understood. It was where he conducted his business by taking on private cases or consulting with the Yard. After all Sherlock moved in first. The ad did say he had to be flexible and he was desperate for a room. And he had yet to find a willing job.

Though that was all about to change. 

It was early evening and John tried to be as quiet as he could as he descended the stairs to get down to the café below. However, before he could make it to the first landing the door opened to a middle aged man he had seen only glimpses of. He was a Detective Inspector, the only one from the Yard that ever visited the flat that he knew of.

“Oi, sorry mate. Nearly ran you over. Are you next? He may be tied up for a bit.” The man's gruff voice asked John who was standing there like a deer in the headlights.

“N-Next?”

“Oh no, no, no! That's not..” Sherlock’s voice answered as he appeared on the other side of the man eyeing John for a moment. His ears were pert but then one ear flanked out to the side as if he was asking his own internal question. 

“Actually,” his pupils constricted in scrutiny as he studied the off guard confronted doctor. “Lestrade this is Dr. John Watson. He lives in the room above me. Doctor this is Lestrade from Scotland Yard.”

The two men shook hands before Sherlock interrupted again.

“Hurry along Graham, I’ll be behind in a taxi. There is something I must discuss with the doctor for a few minutes.”

The Inspector gave a stern look over his shoulder.

“Its Greg. I’ll see you soon. Evening, doc.” With that the Inspector hurried down the stairs and out the door below. Sherlock turned from John making the fluff of his tail swirl around as he headed back to his desk, rearranging papers and filing them in a manila folder.

“Come in John.” His voice beckoned him in and John timidly left his post by the door and entered the domain.

“Sorry, I was trying to be quiet when I came down. I knew you was busy.”

“Quite alright. We were finished all the same. I’ve been called out. Lestrade wants me to take a look at a crime scene.” 

John took a seat in the red armchair, hooking his cane to one of the arms.

“Late one then?”

“Might be. Depends how far I can get.”

John watched as the detective slipped on his long dark coat which had been draped over his desk chair, tail slinking up the inside. Flattening his ears against his head he tucked them inside a deerstalker cap he had produced out of his coat pocket. Some well fitted black gloves were next that slipped graciously onto his long fingers. John thought he looked down right ridiculous. He had seen old detective movies and never did he ever see someone look more the part. Though he was curious as to why all the concealment. Was he ashamed of who he was or was there more prejudice matters at hand? He was about to set off in a dash but stopped suddenly by the doorway, turning towards John in thought.

“You're an army doctor.” Sherlock stated more than he had actually asked.

“Yes.” 

“Seen a lot of injuries then? Violent deaths? Bit of trouble too I bet?”

“Yes. Far too much. Enough for a lifetime.”

Sherlock's head cocked to the side watching John in curiosity.

“Want to see some more?”

John eyes widened at his question. “You mean go with you? To the crime scene?”

The detective nodded.

“Will they even allow me there? Me being a civilian? Don’t they have forensic teams?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed.

“Yes, a team that won’t even work with me. Especially Anderson. I need an assistant. Someone with medical knowledge.”

The thought of going out on a case intrigued John. If Sherlock could tell who he was or where he had been by observing and smelling him, what was he like out on a case? He was curious and fascinated to see what Sherlock could really do.

“Alright then,” John stood up, cane by his side. “I’ll go.”

Sherlock's lips upturned in smile and lead the way down the stairs and John followed. Out by the curbside they hailed a cab and soon they were on their way. 

The cab ride was interesting to say the least. John's eyes wandered over to his flat mate next to him who looked uncomfortable. Sherlock didn’t sit all the way back in the seat, but rather a little forward. No doubt making some room so he didn’t squish his tail half to death. His hat did little for him as well. John could see little subtle movements underneath from his where his ears were trying to stay put in one position. It had to muffle his hearing being trapped under there. Just as John was making note of what he saw Sherlock looked over to him in a questioning gaze.

“You’re staring.” Sherlock simply stated.

“Uh…sorry.” John looked away, his cheeks burning from being caught. As he occupied his gaze out the window he turned his cane into the floorboard in his hands at his embarrassment.

“Why though? You have questions?”

“I just…I just wondered why all the concealment?”

“Ah,” Sherlock answered. “I see your knowledge of my kind is low. What exactly do you know if I may ask? Or is your view of us clouded by myths and rumors?”

John could hear the slight bitterness in Sherlock's voice. It made him wonder if he had grew up being ridiculed or bullied simply because he was different. 

“I will admit I don’t know a whole lot, but that does not mean I am not willing to learn. I haven’t had much encounters with Felisian’s. I have nothing against your kind though. Look what I’m trying to say is that's its fine. Its all fine.” 

The detective’s feline eyes softened on John’s flustered words. He could see his answer spoke truth in the naivety of his ways. At least he was honest. It was one of the first things that drew him towards the doctor when he had first interviewed him. 

“Felisian's by law are not allowed to take up jobs that require warfare or in criminal justice. It is very hard to even gain a higher level paying job compared to humans. That is why we are the minority. Why we are usually called criminals, savages, thieves and basically the scum of the earth. We are looked at more like animals than a person with a soul.”

John looked back to the detective and he could almost hear his heart breaking for him. He wouldn’t admit to him that he had grown up in a prejudiced household where he was never allowed to interact with Felisian's, have them as friends, or even go to school with them. He had heard the racial slurs, the nasty assumptions and opinions his parents made. He had always hated it. 

“I’m so sorry.” John could only say. 

“Do not worry yourself with it. I do believe you are one of the good souls still left out there who sees past our differences. Besides that there are ways to bend the rules so to speak. Its why I invented the job of being a _consulting_ detective.”

 _“Bending the rules. So that’s what this is. If he’s bending the rules to have the career he has, then why is he hiding? The D.I. that was at the flat certainly knows what he is.”_ John's brows bunched together in confusion. 

Their ride came to an end into a rundown neighborhood, pulling up to the curbside where the Yard were already waiting for them. 

“And John, no. They don’t know. Except for Lestrade. And I would like to keep it that way if you don’t mind. I’ve been keeping this secret from them the past couple of years.”

John was surprised that the detective knew exactly what he was thinking. But then again he certainly needed sly talents all his own in order to keep undercover from the rest of the world. 

“I understand.” Replied John.

“Do you?” Sherlock’s eyebrows raised, challenging John's statement as he stepped out of the taxi cab and John followed suit. Right now the feline looked like any other person on the street. Even the pupils of his eyes that were only mere slits at the flat earlier had now widened in the darkness, making them appear more human. It would take anyone a good hard look to try and find the differences between him and John.

“Great. Freak’s here.” A snide woman said loud enough under her breather anyone to hear. She watched them approach the tape line and seemingly puffed herself up trying to make herself look more authoritative.

“Lestrade sent for you? Again?”

“I would think if I was here that you would know the answer Donovan. However, since you can’t put two and two together I’ll make it simple for you and say yes.” 

John hid away a suppressed laugh from Sherlock’s comment, but the detective’s dark gaze landed on him.

“Who’s this?” Asked Donovan.

“This is my colleague Dr. Watson.”

“Oh Lord, now he has a colleague. How did we get so lucky?” Her tone turning to the sarcastic side as she put her walkie talkie to her face. “Freak and company are here.”

“The victim here had a history of getting himself involved with the wrong kind of people. Apparently he owes a mob lord some money. And when he failed to make due this is how we found him. He tried calling police which alerted us, but there was no sign of a break in.” The Inspector briefed in the detective.

Sherlock did not bother waiting for permission and crouched by the body to inspect the murderer’s handy work.Whipping out his small magnifying glass he studied the victim’s clothes and wound. But he didn’t stay there long.

“The murderer was waiting for him.” Spouted off Sherlock as he popped up from the floor.

He scoured the room like a hunter in search for prey, but becoming frustrated when he was coming up empty handed. If John didn’t know any better he would’ve said that this Felisian was more of a blood hound than feline. It was the dogs who usually sniffed out and hunted down the thing they were looking for. Cats on the other hand were the wait-it-out and attack type. Sherlock seemed to not have any time for patience as his prowl continued around the flat, looking in every nook and cranny.

“How do you know that?” The Inspector asked confused.

“Look at his clothes. Dust has been smeared on his shirt due to the filthy air. Filters haven’t been cleaned regularly in this building; leading to the accumulation of dust in the duct work. Yet his flat is spotless. Your murderer was clever but not that clever. He was like a mouse in a hole in the wall. Or in this case the duct work.”

John almost voiced his disbelief until he looked back at the victim and really observed. To see like a Felisian he had to think like one. If he was looking for his “mouse”, so to speak, he would need to find out where he had been. And true to his word there was a significant amount of dust on the victim’s clothes.

“He had allergies too,” John pointed out as he made his own deductions. “Those dark lines under his eyes are common with people who suffer from them. He probably kept his flat clean to try to combat it, no luck I'm afraid.”

“See? Proves all more of my point Lestrade.” 

A creak from the foundation above made the detective stop abruptly in his tracks.

“Quiet.” He commanded and the room came to a pause and stared at Sherlock with confused expressions. But John had caught on a little faster than the rest. He could see the quick twitch of the feline’s ear underneath the hat and knew he had heard something of great importance. Enough to summon a complete stand still.

“He’s still here.” Sherlock charged up the stairs, Lestrade in tow trailing behind him.

Once again Sherlock went on the prowl again searching the upper floor. It was as if he was following a trail that only he could see that led him to the master bedroom of the flat. He had long since reasoned that the murderer had killed his victim and then proceeded to rob him while he was at it. Anything in to repay the mob. However, their murderer had forgotten one thing. That was to know your exit strategy and know how much time you had before the police showed up. That’s why he was a mouse. A very stupid mouse hiding in the closet.

As Lestrade followed Sherlock’s lead, their suspect took them by surprise, bursting out of the closet. Fully intended to not go down without a fight. He lunged at Sherlock first taking a swing at him, but the detective and his cat like reflexes had the upper hand. The man’s aim had been at his face though his fist met nothing but the top of Sherlock’s hat, knocking it off as he ducked down for him to miss. This gave Sherlock an upper hand as he easily took down the man and wrestled him over so Lestrade could hand cuff him.

“What the bloody hell?!” Sally screeched out.

Sherlock whipped his head around to her sudden outburst, but looking over her shoulder to John’s horrified face he knew the damage had been done. He was out.

“Lestrade you never told us the freak was well…a freak!”

“Christ,” Greg breathed out as he reached for Sherlock’s hat and handed it over to him. “May want to get out of here while you still can.”

Sherlock took the hat graciously and put it back on his head.

“How long have you known?” The sergeant questioned further.

“Long enough.”

“None of this is legal!”

“That’s where you are wrong once again,” Sherlock stood to his full height. “I am not employed by the Yard or anyone else. That is why I am a _consulting_ detective. _You_ come to _me_ when your tiny brains can’t wrap themselves around the simplest of cases. Maybe if your head wasn’t so far up Anderson’s skirts his IQ might go up and he may actually know how to do his job.”

The room became utterly quiet from the level of shock. Not just from the fact they had learned that the man they had regularly seen for years was of the feline race, but of the fire of his words towards the woman he openly admitted was having relations with the man on the forensic’s team.

“Why don’t you and the doc go on home. We got the guy and that’s all that matters for the moment. I don’t doubt I’ll be pulling you into the Yard for a chat with the Chief soon.” Lestrade urged Sherlock.

Sherlock gave the Inspector a hard look, but did not press his words. He had taken chances all these years without being found out, and if he was lucky, may scrape by with this unfortunate outcome.

“Come along John. We’re done here.”


End file.
